


The Dancing Men

by andrea_deer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Case, Backstory, Codes & Ciphers, Drug Use, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Off-screen Relationship(s), POV Sally Donovan, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Series, Relationship Study, Sally Donovan & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Scotland Yard, Story: The Adventure of the Dancing Men, Teenagers, Yarders, greg lestrade & sally donovan friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/pseuds/andrea_deer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think I'm able to solve her grandparents deaths," he said finally and Sally just stared at him blankly. </p><p>-  A look through Sally's relationship with Sherlock over the years. She is, indeed, an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dancing Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



> Partially inspired by this [gif set](http://sallydonovan.tumblr.com/post/83520203997/an-old-friend-sally-and-sherlock-used-to-be).

**October, 1996**

"Pasta's done!", called Sally from the kitchen, setting up three bowls to put the dinner in.

Mum was out at work again, trying to handle a second to get some money in, so it was just the three of them for the dinner again.

"Not hungry!" called Marcus from their room and Sally just rolled her eyes.

"I don't care!"

"Pasta again?" asked grandma and Sally just grinded her teeth, thinking about how pleasing it'd be to just slam the bowls with the hot macaroni on both of their heads.

Pasta was fast and easy, and she had better things to do than playing chef at home. She was fifteen, after all, she had a life outside of their flat. Abbey was picking her up in an hour, so she could escape this hell-hole for a bit.

"It's pasta or nothing, so starve happily!" she yelled back and finally only filled one bowl and took it to the living room, which now also worked as her mum's bedroom, since she gave grandma her old one.

"There is no need to be rude, young lady!" scolded grandma, slowly getting up from her armchair, clenching her hand tightly on the cane.

Sally pursed her lips, watching grandma’s struggle for a second. Her anger rotted with guilt quickly. She sighed, putting down her food and standing up.

"Sit down, I'll get it for you."

"I don't need your pity, child."

"Well, you're getting it anyway," murmured Sally under her tone, confident that the grandma could not hear her.

She barely managed to give the woman her dinner before the doorbell rang. She groaned loudly. One moment of peace, was it too much to ask for?

Her brother haven't even moved from their room, so she stamped to the door, already annoyed with their visitor whomever they might be.

"Yes?" she snapped, opening the door.

She'd be in for another lecture on manners if it was Mrs. Collway again, but instead of their nosey, elderly neighbor, she saw a young, white guy. Maybe a few years older than her. Thin like a stick, with a mess of dark curly hair. He was wearing suit pants, long coat and muddy shoes, which made rather an odd combination. He somehow managed to look both dirty and fancy. She quirked her eyebrows at him.

"Are you all right?" she asked unsurely.

The guy was just standing there, breathing slightly shallowly. His eyes were jumping all around as if he wanted to look at everything at once, even though there was not that much to see in their doorway, she thought.

"Yes, yes, fine, perfectly fine," he finally answered rushed, his accent think and posh. 

He smiled brightly at her suddenly, which looked creepy if anything at all. Unsurely she smiled slightly back and moved herself carefully, so she was not standing before the door and could slam it in a moment of notice in the freak’s face. 

"Does Mrs. Rebeca Donovan live here by any chance?"

"Grandma?” asked Sally, confused. “What is this about?"

He frowned for a second, murmuring _"grandmother"_ and then nodding as if deciding that made sense to him after all. Well, that makes one of us, Sally thought mockingly.

"I think I'm able to solve her grandparents deaths," he said finally and Sally just stared at him blankly. 

He gave her another wide smile, which to be honest just confirmed it. He was completely mental.

**August 2011**

_The Dancing Men_ pub probably sounded more fun than it in fact really was. Still it served a wide choice of good beer and was quite close to the Yard, so even though it attracted more bitter middle aged coppers than fun youth, it wasn't doing too badly. Lestrade's team met at a bunch of different places, but still more often than not they gravitated towards the dark, calm exterior of _The Dancing Men_. It seemed only appropriate, Sally thought bitterly, it'd be the pub in which she would finally re-join them.

She hadn't bothered to come since Sherlock's death. No one told her not to, but no one needed to either. She clearly wasn't welcome. The fact that she was on a forced leave seemed like a perfect excuse for both of the sides included. Now the investigation was still on-going, but those involved were allowed back, part-time, mostly to offer as much evidence and paper work as they could on the past cases involving Sherlock. 

She still could've been right, she could've been wrong. It seemed both more and less important now that Sherlock was gone. But even if she won it already, if Sherlock was actually a fraud, she wouldn't come here to gloat. She hadn't come to do much of anything now either. Just to change the sight of the walls from those of the office and her flat, to the walls of the pub. 

She sat quietly by one of the more empty tables, seated comfortably between Doris, silent as usual, and Frank, one of Dimmock's youngest sergeants, who barely knew Sherlock at all. She drunk her Guinness slowly and left as soon as she was done, nodding in passing to her team. Casually enough to be able to pretend they didn’t notice if they’d ignore her. 

Lestrade was busy ordering another round, Mikesh nodded back absentmindedly.

**November 1996**

Sally never had the privilege of having her own room, so she couldn’t be sure how she would treat one, but she was pretty sure it wouldn't be the kind of pit that Sherlock's student quarters were. It was hard to find any free space at all and she resisted asking their host if he even remembered what his floor looked like. Every bit of space was strayed with clothes - dirty, clean and in between, it seemed - books and notes, kicked off bed covers, half-empty take away boxes, dirty mugs and some stuff that looked like stolen from some chemistry lab. There were two beds in the room, a sign that at some point perhaps there was a plan to add Sherlock a roommate, but somehow must have decided to show some mercy to the potential candidates. Sherlock just treated the second bed as another surface for his mess, though to be honest Sally was only half sure which one was a free space for mess and which one Sherlock actually slept on. If he slept at all, that is.

Marcus seemed both baffled and amazed that someone can actually live like this and there won't be anyone protesting. He threw himself on one of the beds, where he found some empty space and half laid there, watching Sherlock swirling around and talking mostly to himself. 

Sally shook her head at the both of them and unceremoniously tipped Sherlock's least covered chair to let the mess fall to the floor and clear the space for her to sit. Sherlock gaze snapped to her at the tumbling sound and he frowned at the fallen down stuff, but clearly decided it was nothing of importance, because he just shrugged and turned back to his wall. It was by now almost fully covered in photos of the Cubbits – Sally’s great-great grandparents - and their residence, as well as the drawings of the dancing stickmen and three taken out bullets.

Neither Sally nor Marcus were especially needed for the process, they didn’t knew much about their family’s history. Even grandma barely heard any stories about her grandparents’, she hadn’t passed on even those until recently. But Sherlock was so different from anyone else they knew that they were fascinated with his insane plan to solve the murder from almost a hundred of years ago. Not to mention it was a nice change to know that at one point there was something interesting and mysterious about their family. Their great-great-grandmother was beautiful pale blonde, mixed with some mysterious business, living in a posh residency and having apparently enough drama in her life to last her family for several next generations.

"What I don't get is why you care at all," said Sally finally, turning her gaze from the portrait of Elsie Cubitt. "I mean, either way they've all been dead for ages."

"Don't you care whether your great-great-grandmother was guilty of murder or not?" questioned Sherlock watching Sally carefully.

She shrugged and tried not to look at her stupid, smirking brother. Marcus turned eighteen two months ago, he was almost Sherlock's age, an adult. She was just fifteen, which was the worst, she thought personally, since it was both everything and nothing at all, depending on situation. She didn't want them to think she was dumb or too young to understand anything, but staying quiet and hoping she'd be able to tag along was never much of an option for her either.

"I don't see how her being a murderess or not will change anything. I didn't even knew much besides her name until you came around, what's the difference now?"

"Because if she's innocent someone should know about this," said Marcus suddenly. "She might've never killed her husband and still, if anyone ever bothers to remember her, they will think she's a killer. That ain't right, unless she really was, you know? It's better late justice than no justice, I reckon."

Sherlock smirked, he glanced at Marcus as they boy spoke, but then he turned his gaze back to Sally, watching her reaction carefully. She felt a bit bad about Marcus' words, of course justice mattered and knowing who really was guilty did too, she just didn't see how it was so important a hundred years later. How it still could affect anyone.

"Personally," said Sherlock calmly, "it just annoys me to not know."

Sally snorted and after a short pause Marcus laughed loudly, falling back on the bed. He laughed for a long time, before wiping his eyes and standing up.

"That's why you're the freaky one, Holmes," he said clapping Sherlock on the back and either not seeing or ignoring how the other boy seemed confused about the gesture.

"So what are those drawings of the dancing stick men then, Freak?" Sally asked quickly, saving Holmes from a round of jovial male bonding. He seemed relieved.

**October 2011**

It's been a week since Sally was back on force full time, when another pub night was organized. She went more to prove she could than anything else. She sat with Mikesh, talking about his daughter's oncoming birthday party and pretending they were not avoiding more difficult subjects.

She sipped her Guinness, tried to give some advice about the choice of toys, even though she always was terrible at gift giving herself, and she tried to stop thinking about the special team that was set to continue working through the cases involving Sherlock. They were checking the evidence, protecting the gained results, so no criminal would work free with their lawyers using Sherlock's potential fraud as their angle. People were already unhappy about how long it was taking. Even Sally caught enough of ends of whispered conversations to know that. Those who believed in Sherlock's innocence wanted his name cleared faster, saw it as a stalling tactic, though whom it was supposed to protect was beyond Sally. Those who believed he was a fraud wanted to know how he managed to do it all this time, how much of a mess he made in the Yard's cases. Most just wanted it to be done with, so they could move on. 

Sally wasn't sure anymore which side of this debacle she was on, but she wanted to find out the truth, so she could know which one she should've been on, if she were a damn psychic. Since she saw exactly how much paper work the Sherlock team will have to go through, she didn't have much hope to find out any time soon. Mostly she was just frustrated that the answer was not easier, so many people acted as if it was. 

Her therapist said it was okay to feel guilty, whether she was right about Sherlock or not, he did jump and though it was not Sally’s fault, it was only natural to feel guilt. She was supposed to be working through it. Letting it go.

She never asked if it was okay to feel anger at the wanker for jumping before explaining what the hell he thought he was doing.

**February 1997**

When someone knocked on the door and disappeared before they opened, leaving only a short message on the paper stuck in the letter hole, they knew who it was from even before Marcus opened it to see the figures of the dancing stickmen.

Sherlock worked out the code over a month ago, when he found more letters or copies of letters. He was on the edge of solving the mystery since then, but still had no idea who shot whom. It was hard to solve old cases, he told them, angry as if they doubted him. There was never enough data, apparently. Marcus and Sally nodded, but that was not the right answer anyway and Sherlock was in a sulk ever since.

Until now apparently, since he was leaving them messages again. Marcus wordlessly passed Sally the paper, since she was able to read it without checking up the translation they had copied in their room.

_"MEET ME BY THE PITCH IN 1 HR - SH"_

"You'd think someone would've explained to him that signing a letter sort of misses the point of writing it in a code," grumbled Sally good naturedly, but her brother just rolled his eyes. 

"I think he knows better what he's doing than you, kid," he said and she pushed him, going for her coat.

"Don't call me kid, dumbass."

He pushed her back and she glared at him.

"Kids?" their mum called out from her room tiredly. It was one of those _'I'm too tired for this, but I can hear you begging for trouble'_ tones and they glanced back, before putting some distance between each other.

"We're fine," called Sally already opening the door.

"We're going out for a bit," added Marcus and they were out before they could hear a reply.

Sherlock met them by the pitch as he said. He stood by the fence, leaning against it somehow disgracefully with a cigarette tugged in the corner of his lips.

"Since when you smoke?" asked Sally, because somehow it didn't fit with the picture Sherlock made up so far. 

There weren't any full ashtrays or stuff last time they were at his place. Maybe he only smoked outside or something, she considered, wondering if that would kill the smell from his clothes so completely. He never smelled like a smoker before. She would've known, she absolutely despised that odor.

He smirked at her.

"A while. Want one?"

Sally wrinkled her nose, for a fraction of second tempted to say yes just to see if he really would give it to her.

"No."

"Yes," said Marcus at the same time and Sally glared at him. He rolled his eyes at her again and took the fag from the packet Sherlock offered.

Sherlock light it up for him, their hands circling the flame to keep it strong enough. Marcus seemed a bit awkward and ill at ease, but he didn't cough like she heard some of her friends, when they tried it one time after school. He's done it before.

She stood next to them, radiating disapproval. It seemed to amuse Sherlock at least.

 

They wandered around the neighborhood for several hours. Sally's boots were getting soaked as they walked through the half melted snow, but she didn't mention it. She tried to keep on talking about Sherlock's investigation. He wasn't saying anything new, basically rehashing what they already discovered, sometimes even repeating himself, talking in circles. It wasn't like him, but perhaps it helped him to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. She asked questions, nodded in all the right moments and reminded him about the stuff they already figured out. It didn't seem like he needed that much, barely acknowledging her most of the time, but Marcus had a terrible knowing smirk on his face that somehow reflected Sherlock's and she felt like they were pushing her out of the conversation without even talking between themselves.

In the end she just clenched her jaws and quieted down, sometimes only speaking up with a sarcastic suggestion, made mostly to annoy them at least half as much as they annoyed her. 

Sherlock stared at her at one point suddenly, after she dismissed his wild theory with a scoff. He was clearly reaching at this point, he could just as well randomly pick ideas from in the worst kinds of cop shows.

He frowned after a moment, studying her face carefully.

"You're angry," he said slowly.

"Well, aren't you the genius," she mocked. Marcus snorted and looked away from them. "Also my feet are numb from cold and you're not saying anything that's not either completely far-fetched or already discussed ten times over, so I'm going home. Marcus?"

Her idiotic brother was still smiling, which just annoyed her more.

"I think I will stay with Sherlock for a bit."

Sally rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself," she snapped and walked away stiffly. Her anger seemed like the only burning warm point in her body right now. 

 

Marcus slipped into their room hours later, long after the supper and after Sally went to bed herself. She had her back turned towards the room, facing the wall, she was still angry and rather annoyed that something about today’s meeting was still escaping her. She sighed loudly, when Marcus stumbled upon something.

"S'rry," he mumbled quietly.

She frowned, turning quickly.

"What's wrong with you? Did you stay with the Freak long enough to catch the stupid? Or did your brain freeze over?"

He snorted.

"I'm fine, Salls. Fine. And don't be weird about Sherlock. 's not like he could be at his best today."

"And why on Earth not? He seems convinced he's always at his best."

"Well, yeah, but he was high as hell today. You haven't noticed?"

She stared at him in the dark, barely seeing his outline. The burning ball of anger that seemed to clench her insides and wanted her to shout and yell and cry until people noticed that she was mad and had every right to be- it suddenly became freezing cold.

"High?"

"Yeah," shrugged Marcus. "Never saw him that off before. He said he made some new stuff. I reckon it didn't quite work like planned."

Sally stayed silent. She turned back, facing the wall again and curling upon herself. She stayed really quiet and breathed carefully.

"Salls?"

"Shut up, I want to sleep," she said, aiming at a scathing tone, though she feared her voice trembled. She didn't think Marcus noticed.

 **March 2012**

The pub nights became more of an obligation than a pleasurable way to pass the time. People chatted with her easily enough. As the time passed, more and more cases were done and closed, the day-to-day stuff pushed the older issues further back down everyone's memory. But it was still there, notable in the way that no one mentioned Sherlock's name near Sally. And when it happened accidentally people quickly realized their _faux pas_ and the awkward silence had to be dismantled by some willing volunteer all over again.

Sometimes it was even subtler. She'd just be chatting with Carrie or Rajesh, catching up, realizing how long it's been since they talked outside of work. How carefully they avoided difficult subjects.

She clenched her teeth, sucked in her lips in annoyance and anger. Cultivated the righteous, burning feeling she hoped one day might be validated, no matter the result of the case on Sherlock. She did, what needed to be done. She was not going to apologize for that.

 

She was drinking her beer by the table filled mostly with Gregson's people. What better place for the pariah of the Lestrade's team? One of Dimmock's sergeant's was glancing at her and at first opportunity joined her table, sitting close and smiling friendly.

She gave him a tight smile back. She was not willing to mess up her work even more by even thinking about starting anything with a co-worker. She was not in the right mindset anyway, certainly not during those pub nights. 

"Hey there," said Dimmock’s sergeant, Nathan or Nate, she was pretty sure, but she didn’t know him well and could not quite connect his face with any overheard or shared information. "Hiding from your own team?"

Her smile was small and tight and if he knew her at all, he'd realize it was a smile that signalized last attempts at good manners and friendly cheer.

"Just heard the story about the body in parts in the truck one time too many, considering I was actually on the case."

Mostly following Trevor who seemed to be taking up more and more time on the force, when Sally was pushed to the back of the line. He wasn't a bad cop and she tried not to resent him too much for stepping in. 

"Yeah, I guess. But it seems to me you sit more with other teams than you do with your own these days," he pointed out calmly, clearly not taking the hint to leave the subject. "You know, you can always switch teams, we're slightly less judgmental pricks, I think."

She frowned at him.

"Who said I would like to switch teams?" she asked and then shook her head in slight disbelief, before pinning him with a cold look. "Who said I should?"

He raised his hands in mock surrender and smiled again. 

"No one at all," he assured her, before shrugging it off. "Well, at least not officially."

He smirked at her as if sharing a joke, but she was hard pressed to find it even remotely funny. 

"And you came over, out of the goodness of your heart, to tell me transferring to your team would make it all better?" she mocked and that frowned in fake concentration. "It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that your team falls so far behind with solving rates it's getting embarrassing?"

He only huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but denied none of her accusations.

"Be that as it might," he snorted, dismissing the matter, "I did not come to talk to you because of the office politics. I know how it feels, okay? My transfer? Was a step up, I won't deny that, and well-earned too. But I was previously stuck with my team which I was too stubborn to leave and I'd jump at any possible option to move from there. Quite possibly they felt the same, that's why they pushed my file forward."

"Fascinating," she said dryly. "It's really great to know we get our best and brightest every time."

"You do," he promised her with a self-assured smirk, "but this time you got the best and the brightest who made a mistake. Of course, I was cleared, it was an honest mistake, but a kid got to stay for three years in prison, because of that. I've messed up some paperwork, someone else messed up more and we were all eager to catch the bad guys, because that's the point isn't it? And one kid got the bad deal out of it. So, trust me, I know how it is, to slightly screw up, trust your badge too much and end up being blamed for things that were way out of your hands."

He looked at her sympathetically and she could not remember the last time she was quite so furious. 

"I did not 'slightly screw up',” she hissed angrily. “I did not get over my head and cuffed the first guy who was around to get my solving rates better, even though he was just a barely adult kid, who happened to live in a shitty neighborhood. Yes, Nathan, I might be a bit of a pariah at the moment, but I do know, where coffee is made and the gossip exchanged, it's not exactly a secret. 

I – unlike you - saw the evidence and followed it and I demanded them being followed and the situation being checked and cleared. Yes, I believed Holmes was guilty, but I did not push him off the rooftop. I wanted him to be interviewed and this bloody case finally explained. Because I'm not some megalomaniac dickhead who believes he can't do wrong, I'm a cop, alright? And when I see evidence that doesn’t add up, I want to know why. And I don't sit back and say it's fine, he's one of us. And I don't prosecute someone, because I find them suspicious. If it were you, I would try to solve it just the same. Even if it was Lestrade or the Commissioner, not because I don't trust them with my life, but because so many people besides me do and that means I can't just not see the proof, because it complicates stuff. 

It might not make me a great person, but it makes me a pretty decent cop and that's why you want me on your team, but it is not happening, do I make myself clear?"

_The Dancing Men_ pub was never completely quiet. There was always some low music and people set all over the room and some playing pool in the adjoined one. Yet it was much quieter than it should be and Sally realized that she finally let go of that painfully hot burning feeling of anger and frustration and her rant was getting louder with every sentence and by the end she found herself standing and glaring down at Nathan.

Someone snickered and Sally realized with some relief that it was Carrie, her amusement quickly drown by Trevor's loud laughter. Mikesh was biting on a smile and Tom was smiling a bit awkwardly, the only new addition to Lestrade's team who still seemed not settled in well enough to share their emotional outbursts over things that happened almost a year ago.

Lestrade seemed like he was aiming at light, but fell a mile off.

"Trying to steal my sergeants now, eh? You better keep closer to us Sally, Dimmock's clearly losing his marbles."

"As if he ever had them," murmured Gregson, sitting pointedly at a different table than Lestrade, but with her chair close enough that they were still obviously gossiping with each other most of the time.

Sally nodded tightly, trying to match her boss' tone of voice and missing the light humour even more.

"Sounds reasonable, sir," she said and took her half-drunk pint to their table, feeling as if she was just promoted in social ladder back at school.

Clearly Mikesh was having similar thoughts, since just as she sat he murmured: "Is it just me or there is that tension in the air that would mean food fight if we were not respectable adults that we are?"

She laughed happily, feeling lighter than she did in months.

**May 1997**

This time the note was left on Sally's own desk and she didn't even want to consider how it got there. She was annoyed at herself for still knowing the code by heart, but tried to dismiss it. She was good with codes, that's all there was to it. 

The note simply said _"I solved it. Still room 211."_ and against her better judgment she went back to Sherlock's dorm, casually lying on her way out, so her mother wouldn't even think about worrying. Not that she strictly speaking knew Sherlock was someone to be worried about, but Sally did and that made her extra cautious.

Sherlock was laying in the middle of the rom, on a half-heartedly cleared patch of the floor, between all of his mess, his hands held under his chin and Sally's quick, panicked thought that he was unconscious was dismissed automatically. No one would fall like that, not even that freak of a person.

They were both quiet for a long time, Sally sat on his bed, trying to wait him out, before sighing angrily, remembering painfully how pointless those attempts always were. He probably wasn't even aware she was in the room. Still, it made some difference from all the nerves and fights at home. _Who's fault is it? You're never here! How should I know?! I don't know anything, I don't know his stupid friends! You don't care enough for your kids, Heidi. If you paid attention we could've stopped that. He was always such a good-_

"You're here."

"You said you solved it."

"Hm. Yes," he answered lazily, sounding almost bored, not at all as if he just finished a case he was working on in his spare time for over a year now. "Elsie was after all a part of the American gang, some New York group, I believe. Had a man there, he loved her, but was a bit of a thug, good thing for his job, less so for marriage, I imagine. She left and hided, changed her name, married Hilton, your great-great-grandfather. He probably didn't know a thing. Certainly not the whole truth, his last actions are so chaotic they had to be done by a man dealing with something he did not understand. Elsie's admirer obviously found her and she tried to convince him to let her go. That’s what her last letter suggests, she asked for a meeting after all, but seemed stressed by his reappearance - so her husband's letters to the Yard tell us - and not at all ready for running away with the returned old lover. I found the lover, by the way, that's how I solved it. Had to go to America for that one, it was tedious, but I was dealing with other stuff as well, so the boredom was mostly manageable," he fell silent for a moment. 

Yes. I found the letter he received and learned about his future life. Anyway, Hilton must have walked in on that meeting, saw the stranger and shot. So did the lover. Elsie shot herself. In grief, I imagine. There was an extra bullet in the window sill, they only found it decades later, that's why I got interested in the case in the first place, I needed to explain the third bullet. As you already know, Elsie survived her shot to the head, but got arrested and was in no state to protect herself. She quickly died in prison. Lover left, thinking Elsie died and so he had no reason to protect her. I think by the time he learned what happened it was already too late. He was shot in some gang war several years later, I deleted the details."

And so that was it, it seemed. Though she wasn't sure how much she trusted Sherlock's opinion on anything at the moment. He was still lying almost motionlessly and spoke in same, quiet, calm voice that was nothing like his usual excited monologues.

"You're high," she said quietly and his gray eyes opened, locking on her with some difficulty. His irises were somehow off. Too big, she thought panicked.

"Not less genius though."

"That's really what you think?"

"Obviously."

"Well, you know what I think?"

"Always."

She tossed a book that was near her on the bed, hitting him in the thigh. He hissed in pain and glared at her, his eyes looking even less human than normally. She gulped, terrified and quickly pushed her fear underneath the anger. She stood up rapidly.

"My brother is in prison," she said coldly.

He blinked. Absorbing new data, she thought cruelly.

"What for? Something interesting?"

She wanted to kick him, to hurt him, but she doubted it would be enough, doubted she could cause enough pain. And she was terrified he would fight back and she was terrified of him now. The lanky weirdo, who talked about old murders was this weird creature that never seemed to fully connect with the world and just ruined everything for his amusement and slid down to boredom again.

"Possession of an A class drug. He got six years."

"Oh," he said quietly, understanding flooding his features. "I did not push the needle into his vain, Sally. Don't hold me responsible."

"I don't think anyone could ever call you responsible, Freak."

She slammed the door behind her and the student walking up the stairs gave her an annoyed look. It was probably more of a reaction than she got from the drugged up genius she was leaving.

**June 2012**

They've met at _The Dancing Men_ again, which this time was Sally’s suggestion, though no one knew it could possibly be meaningful. She was actually officially invited this time and agreed to attend without much hesitation. She had every right to be there. It was not like she would be the only person who had an issue with Sherlock and yet attended the pub night on the anniversary of his death. No one called it any kind of a special meeting, no one even mentioned Sherlock's name. The anniversary fell on a Friday and they went about planning it like they’d with every other pub night. 

They drunk in a more somber mood until someone mentioned Sherlock being an arse, when he once interrupted pub night to get Gregson to re-open the case, closing of which they were just celebrating. He deduced anyone within eyesight and in the end most of the coppers pushed Gregson out of the pub to deal with the Freak, so they wouldn’t have to.

"He recalled the professions of the last two of my girlfriends, while I was trying to chat up a new one!" bemoaned Rajesh and everyone laughed. "She gave me a fake phone number!"

"That's because you're a sleaze ball," assured him Charrie calmly.

"She didn't seem to mind that before!"

They all laughed at his mock outrage. With time passing and no risk of Sherlock being there or on another crime scene ever again, it all faded into another good anecdote about something they had to suffer through at some point. It was unpleasant and grim, often humiliating, but it was in the past. It was something they could happily laugh over now. 

"He seemed to get better later on, though," noted Mikesh. "I barely remember him commenting on my marriage in last few months or how I clearly couldn't keep up with my own child."

"John was a good influence," nodded Lestrade and they just stared at him. He seemed to think it over. "Well, he was a calming influence. Or at least he focused most of Sherlock's attention on himself, so he had less to spare on us. Either way, good lad."

Some people chuckled, remembering how much worse Sherlock was before John came around. The silence that fell would usually be fit with comments about how they could be shagging, were definitely shagging or would anyone be willing to bet when they will start shagging, but no one was willing to breach the subject now. Their speculations and gossip were far less festive now when they haven't seen John regularly, but every glimpse they caught was of a completely broken man. It didn't matter what he and Sherlock had, it was enough to completely ruin him in the end, it seemed.

"I remember the very first time he came over the crime scene," said Lestrade suddenly and Sally smiled openly, and some others who were on the team then did too. "High as a kite and spitting out theories that were both crazy and actually made sense, still am not sure which was worse. Had to arrest him before he'd stamp all over the crime scene, giving Anderson an ulcer."

The silence fell again as Anderson's name was mentioned. It was not a subject comfortable with anyone and it was not a coincidence the forensic sergeant was carefully shielded from any information about the meeting tonight.

"Do you remember how he rang us to tell us he wants to report a murder, because of a goose he got?" said Trevor suddenly, still sounding as if he hardly believed it happened.

"And you kept on passing him to talk to another person until he hang up and we had to get over there to see what the hell he meant!” reminded Lestrade through the laughter.

"A murder proof in the goose! I was trying to check if I'm not going crazy. But no of course not, he actually did somehow found a bloody murder proving goose, why not?"

They all chuckled at Trevor’s disbelief. 

"He seemed so happy, too. Claimed it best Christmas gift ever," commented Carrie with a small shake of her head.

They all remembered how he practically bounced on the walls with his enthusiasm, as if someone actually did save Christmas for him with that stunt. Like a young kid, who expected a boring gift and woke up to found a puppy. Definitely not like a fraud who made up the case himself, unless the Yarders interrupting their own holiday plans and running around town, because of a goose were that amusing to him.

They all avoided heavier topics as much as they could. Random reminiscent stories about Sherlock and his deductions and his crazy experiments and tough cases and snide remarks and insults and quirks were shared all evening. With laughter that barely covered the overpowering sadness and disappointment at how it all ended. The man was dead, guilty or not, he was dead and they were not responsible, but they weren't the ones to save him either. 

Sally sat mostly silent, barely interacting with other story tellers. Sometimes commenting, when asked or adding a detail or two. She told no anecdotes of her own, realizing suddenly how little those people knew about the stories she could tell. Wondered if they'd believe her. Wondered if she was curious enough to try and find out. 

She drunk her Guinness and stayed on the edge of conversation until it was time to leave.

She stood by Lestrade, waiting for their taxi. She convinced him it was a better deal for her to share one taxi and that it was her only motivation, because he was too old to be babysat, even if he drunk one or two pints too many. Anyway, he was probably right, he would make it back home on his own, he wasn't that drunk, just tipsy enough for it to be easily noticeable. 

She would feel better though if she saw him getting home safely and the taxi deal wouldn’t actually be too bad. They waited quietly, Lestrade smoking a cigarette and Sally making sure she stood on his left, so the wind would not move the smoke towards her. She still hated the smell and rather enjoyed slowly cooling air. It was a very nice night.

"You seemed rather quiet tonight," said Lestrade suddenly. "You're okay, right?"

She smiled at him.

"I'm fine, I just didn't have much that I wanted to share."

He laughed shortly.

"I would think you would have plenty."

She quirked her eyebrow.

"Well, you always had a lot to say to him and about him."

She shrugged.

"I knew him for a long time. I don't think though that anyone even realized that," she admitted thoughtfully.

Lestrade frowned, working her sentence over in his head, trying to understand what she wasn't saying exactly.

"You knew him before he came to work with us?" he asked suddenly coming to the conclusion he didn't seem to fully believe.

She shrugged.

"Never seemed like a good time to mention it, certainly not now that it doesn't matter at all and would be even harder to believe," she said calmly.

Their taxi arrived then and they let themselves in, giving the driver Lestrade's address first. Lestrade broke the silence after several minutes.

"When did you meet him then?" he asked and she smiled at him fondly.

He was barely holding on some days and still made sure to ask them, when they needed to talk. Overly curious, yet a very good boss. She was glad she never fell for the temptation to switch teams or even divisions.

"I was... fifteen? Yeah, fifteen, he was just starting university. He came over and said he wants to solve my great-great-grandparent's mysterious deaths."

Lestrade laughed loudly and she joined him, it sounded so ridiculous and yet so very Sherlock.

"Did he?" asked Lestrade finally after they stopped laughing and sat in quiet for a while.

She rolled her eyes in mock annoyance.

"Of course he did," she said and mentioned nothing else from that time that he also did or participated in.

Lestrade smiled brightly at her. “You should tell the whole story to me at some point.”

She smiled back, realizing how much she missed them just talking. She wouldn’t mind much if the freak would be the one to bring it back, he was also the one who tired their friendship in the first place.

“Maybe I will,” she said simply.

**Epilogue, November 2013**

Lestrade eventually ended the hug and just stared at Sherlock in awe for a long, silent moment. It was mind-boggling and yet somehow completely believable right then, because it involved this one unreal bastard. He grinned at him and when Sherlock winced back, he noticed his cut lip.

"Some trouble on your way from the grave?" he asked, mentioning towards it. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, actually," he answered testily and Lestrade snorted, genuinely amused and also fond of how very Sherlock it was to be surprised by it.

He probably thought he will come back suddenly fine and alive and everyone will welcome him with open arms and not a tint of anger or resentment. Greg shook his head. Sherlock was just cleared in the eyes of the law, which now seemed like a perfect timing and more of a Mycroft doing. Lestrade sighed quietly, if the bastard at least said they can't have Sherlock's name cleared yet Yard wouldn't waste so many people working on the bloody case so hard. 

"Not everyone up for welcoming hugs then?" he asked, just to tease Sherlock a bit.

"Thankfully not," he answered with a slight contempt and Lestrade could not stop smiling.

"You told everyone already?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked away. 

"Some people knew. I told John, obviously, Mrs. Hudson and you. The rest will learn from the news soon enough, I think."

Lestrade shook his head and Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him.

"Listen," Greg started uneasily, not sure how his suggestion will be received. "I know you didn't part on the best of terms... to put it mildly, but it's been tiring years for us-"

"If you're asking me to go to Anderson and his ridiculous fan club-" he said coldly and Lestrade smiled despite himself, shaking his head.

"No, no. I mean, yeah, go some time perhaps, but no. Actually, I meant Sally. Sally Donovan. She's holding on very well," he assured quickly somehow uneasy with Sherlock thinking he could break her so easily, "but as I said, it's been tough times and she was stuck in the middle of this mess."

"On her own volition, if I remember correctly."

Lestrade sighed and just nodded silently, it was a long shot. 

"Do you have any paper? Something to write on?" asked Sherlock after a quiet moment and with a confused frown Lestrade was checking his pockets, before he even thought about questioning it.

It seemed he was easily falling in the old ways of their interactions. He finally passed Sherlock some old pen with clear signs of nervous biting and a rustled page torn out of the notebook with just a date an hour written on one side to mark some old appointment.

Sherlock turned it in his hands and apparently deemed them just barely good enough.

"Turn around, I need a surface to write on."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, thinking it was great to know that years on the force and multiply successful cases and his life in general made him worthy of being a desk for Sherlock Holmes' messages.

Sherlock seemed to think for a second before writing his message down, but once he started he did not hesitate and finished it off quickly.

Lestrade turned and Sherlock passed him back the paper and pen.

"Pass it on to sergeant Donovan before she sees the news."

Lestrade frowned at the page.

"A line of dancing stick men?" he asked with a smile, remembering Sally’s stories.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, before nodding to himself.

"If she told you about that, maybe she will translate as well. Goodbye, Lestrade, call me if you have anything interesting for me," he said already walking away into the darkened parking lot.

[ ](http://imgur.com/BNOd7wa)


End file.
